


All roads lead to an end

by CrazyEyedMustafa



Category: Marathon (Video Games)
Genre: Gen, Infinity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-18
Updated: 2019-09-18
Packaged: 2020-10-20 23:26:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20683688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrazyEyedMustafa/pseuds/CrazyEyedMustafa
Summary: Things don't go as planned...





	All roads lead to an end

**Author's Note:**

> Made this real quick, so some errors will appear. Experimenting a bit. Lemme know what you think. Apologies if some details aren't exactly accurate.

_ “You and I, we’re going to go far. I’m going to take you places that you can’t even dream of. Doesn’t that sound fun?” _

_I’m cursed. That has to be it. I’m cursed to __be this bastard’s puppet for the rest of my __life._

Finally, after what felt like weeks of nonstop battle and relentless combat, Roland finds a moment to breathe. He inhales deeply, taking in the alien scent of the ship. If what Durandal intended on following through with his promise, then he was going to have to get used to the smell. There are far worse fates to be sentenced to, Roland ponders. 

“_Hi, just your friendly neighborhood AI checking in to see that—oh look! You’re not moving!” _

Scratch that. Being left behind to be consumed in a fiery nova sounds a lot better now.

Roland bares his teeth at the ceiling, and bites, “Give me a break, you ass. I deserve at least that much.”

The AI actually scoffs, agitating Roland even further. “_I just saved you from undeniable death and eternal boredom, and I’m repaid with petty insults.” Not like I had much of a choice,_ Roland seethes. “**_I _**_deserve some gratitude. Be glad I like you, or I would’ve left you behind._”

“Real glad I’m useful.” Preferring not to keep this topic going, Roland changes the subject. “We out of the system just yet?”

“_ Currently in the process of leaving. Just finishing up some last minute modifications to the ship’s mainframe. Make your way to the bridge. The P’fhor use the trih xeem once in every millenia. I think you’ve earned the right to see it in action with your own eyes.” _ Roland pushes himself off the wall, and starts heading toward the bridge. His is pounding, and right now he’d like nothing more than a nice nap and food that isn’t alien fauna or rations. “ _ It’s a miracle the P’fhor get anything done. Their hands are no cleaner than primates.” _Roland somewhat agrees with the AI, but he doesn’t dare say that outloud. Giving him the satisfaction was the last thing Roland wants to do.

Not paying any attention to his gait, he nearly trips over as the lights turn off for a brief moment. Cursing his own clumsiness, he shouts out to the ship.

“Hope nothing is broken,” he says. He waits for Durandal to give one of his usual pompous replies, but there is only silence. Roland waits a few seconds for him to answer.

Nothing. 

Odd. 

Whatever. Roland shrugs to no one in particular, and continues moving on to the bridge. Was it something he said? The pragmatic AI would usually be droning on about their plans about now. His plans really, but Roland doesn’t have much say in the matter anyway, so whatever Durandal has in mind retroactively becomes Roland’s business as well. So long as he’s stuck with him, Roland has to agree to the current circumstances. The alien architecture of the ship was very similar to that of the former _ Boomer _, with the sickeningly green ceiling putting him at unease. Maybe he could—

The lights flicker again. 

Roland sighs. “You mind getting one of the compilers—“

A groan runs through the ship, sending vibrations into the hull and up his body. 

What the hell?

He opens his mouth to speak, but is interrupted as the Rozinante ripples and throws him into wall, knocking the wind out of him. The red and green hues of the ship were flickering sporadically now, coloring his dazed vision. The ship jerked again, and Roland is sent skidding down the metal floor, back the way he came. His instincts at full alert, Roland digs a hand into the floor to slow himself down. He can feel the ship around him shaking as if in pain. The groan is back, and Roland realizes that it’s the sound of warping metal. He manages to get back on his feet, only to hear Durandal finally comment.

_ “Something’s wrong.” _

Clutching at his side in pain, Roland manages to gasp, “Gee, you think?” He sprints down the corridor, dodging confused looking Compilers. The wide hallways were slowly ascending and converging. In his haste, he doesn’t notice his heart is racing, heavy thumps echoing in his head.

Durandal isn’t saying anything, which is _ really _ worrying. “Hey, I know I’m just some lowly human, but you mind filling me in on what’s going on?” He says it with a more wavering tone than intended.

The alarms finally kick in, and Roland hears the screech of bending metal coming from somewhere in the ship. 

“Durandal!” He swerves around a corner, the entrance to the bridge closed. A lone switch is located to its right. Roland bounds over and flips it with force, but nothing happens. The door refuses to budge. He shouts again.

“Durandal! Talk to me!” 

Over the blaring klaxons, he hears Durandal’s voice. 

“—I-I-I-I-I can’t see—,” and the rest he can’t make out, either because it’s too incomprehensible or the alarms are overwhelming his voice. The ship shudders again, and Roland grips onto the switch. He just barely manages to hang on and keep himself from being tossed aside. The switch bends to the side, rendering it inoperable. 

Roland considers running back the way he came when he feels light sensation take him over. Looking down at his body, he sees that he’s starting to glow a slight white hue. He was about to get teleported, to where or by whom he does not know. 

Is it the nova? Did Durandal miscalculate? 

Why isn’t Durandal talking? 

Roland barely manages to make out the AI’s voice again, this time slightly more understandable. 

“—p-p-p-prepare for teleport—”

The last thing he sees is the nigh-organic walls of the ship collapse and close around him, before a flash of white fills his vision.

* * *

Teleport technology is very tricky. 

One must jot down the exact quantum location of every single atom of the desired traveler, and make sure said traveler makes it to their destination in one piece. Over the centuries of advancing technology, teleportation has been honed to a rather simple process, if everything is going to plan, and there’s no interference, of course. Any sort of outside factors could completely destroy the person being teleported, or be transported with only half of your body coming with you.

Neither of these things happen to Roland when Durandal takes what is likely the biggest risk of his long, 300+ year life. A blind teleportation over a distance as large as the one he sends Roland through is unheard of, insane to even the most rampant of AIs. 

Thankfully, Roland manages to phase back into reality intact. He’s also teleported to his new location slightly above the ground. 

In a flash, he falls face first onto solid floor with a thud and a loud “ow!” His helmet thankfully protects him from any sort of serious injury, but it doesn’t prevent the proceeding dizziness. Roland groans, and lifts himself up. He immediately notices a glaring change. 

The checkered walls and alien glows are replaced by cold, grey metal. His sense of hearing recovers, and the hum before has been replaced by hissing pistons, and a distant buzz. He quickly jerks his head around, taking note of where he is. A door and a switch was to his left, and a window behind him. Durandal must’ve teleported him here.

But where is “here?”

He checks himself over for any injuries, and breathes a sigh of relief upon contacting the holstered grip of his pistol. Checking it over for any sign of damage, he loads in a clip and slides back the chamber. 

He turns around, and approaches the view. Placing a hand on the glass, he sees a single motionless ship frozen some distance away. Peeking around the window, he can make out the exterior of his current location. A space station, he surmises, but where? 

But something is off. Space has always been uncomfortable, but why does it feel so…

The stars. 

The stars are gone. 

His mind is playing tricks, or the station is. He squints his eyes, hoping in desperation that would help, but it produces no results. 

What’s going on? And where the hell is Durandal?

Did he…?

No, Roland tells himself. The last thing Durandal would ever do is put someone else’s life above his own. If Roland made it here, then Durandal has as well. Hopefully. Maybe he can make some sense of this mess. 

Hopefully.

Roland starts to move away from the glass and move further into the station, but something in the corner of his eye twitches. Curious, he leans closer into the glass to seedkldmfrf

nduwrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrlookawaylookawayLOOKAWAYICANT

Breathing, heart, blood, mind, touch. Everything seizes, and Roland collapses back. He moans through his painful convulsing. Reaching up to his eyes, he tries to scratch through the helmet. He cannot hear himself speak.

“Muh…oh God…please, I can’t…” 

get it OUT.

Too many too many faces and eyes and teeth and folds, I can’t looklooklooklook

His ears are filled with a vibrating cry, one too viral to be alive. He bares his teeth, and clamps down on his ears, rolling on the ground. 

Breathe. Just breathe. 

He inhales deep through his nose, and exhales. Repeating this process for another minute, he manages to collect himself, and stands on shaky legs. His head is swimming, and a bout of nausea washes over him. He manages to not vomit, and steadies himself on the wall to his left. 

What he doesn’t notice is the button under his hand. The door opens, but stops about halfway, shifting in place as if stuck. Shaking his head, he grabs his pistol off the ground. 

What the hell was that thing?

A familiar chatter comes from the other side of the door. Readying his sidearm, he peeks through the crack to see a green-bodied figure’s back facing his way. Before he has any time to react, the door shuts on him. He grimaces, recognizing the presence of P’fhor. One fighter usually meant more. He has to get out of here, find Durandal. 

Taking a steady pace, he travels through the steel corridor. Upon closer inspection of the walls, he notices dust on their surface. The distant buzz is getting closer, and in the dark passageway he sees a light at the end. He picks up the pace, and starts to jog in an urgent manner. The light is clear now, and he can see a terminal, with a comforting green symbol projecting on it’s screen.

Never in a hundred years did he think he'd be happy to see that symbol. 

He rushes past the corner, only barely managing to notice and dodge a P’fhor energy staff. Veering back in surprise, the owner of the staff clicks with ferocity, and raises the weapon to strike again. Roland manages to deflect the oncoming blow with his free hand, and unloads a clip into the alien’s face. Yellow blood splatters all over his helmet, and he wipes it off with disgust. More alien chatter comes from his right, and he snaps up his gun to reload. Taking sight of more P’fhor, he takes them out in quick succession. Making sure there was no one to interrupt him, Roland lowers his pistol and walks over to the terminal. With some slight hesitation, he punches the access button, and speaks.

“Can’t believe I’m saying this, but I’m glad—”

“I made a mistake.” 

_ That _ shut him up. “Wait, what?”

“I’ve made the most catastrophic mistake of my existence, and it may cost yours, if not everyone.”

“Slow down.” He gulps down his worry. “Talk to me.” 

“Things have gone terribly awry. Until now, I thought myself immortal, but now I know that is not true. There are things that can destroy me with the ease that I slaughtered the Pfhor naval garrison and the Western Arm of their Battle Group Seven. But in their final gasp they used a weapon that I thought they had retired, even Tycho tried to keep them from using it.”

Roland is confused. “The trih xeem? I thought you said we’d be out of range.”

“We were,” Durandal messages. “The blast would not have reached us.”

“Then what is it?”

“The sun. The Jjaro kept something imprisoned there. Something I thought was myth. I once boasted to be able to count the atoms in a cloud, to understand them all, predict them, and so did I predict you, but this new chaos is entirely terrible, mindless, obeying rules that I don't comprehend. And it is hungry.”

_ You saw it for yourself. _

_ It _ ** _sees_ ** _ you. _

“I should have listened. Those dead texts I took as bluster were warning us, warning _ me. _”

“There—there has to be something I can do,” Roland pleads. Deep down, he knows with his own eyes that there is nothing that can be done to prevent this.

Durandal speaks his name. “Roland.”

Roland’s eyes widen. “Durandal—”

“I’m sorry.” 

_ No. _

“I could’ve done something, while we still had time, but it’s too late. I’ve doomed us all. There is nothing I can do.”

Silence envelops the two, once enemies, now mutual company at the end. 

Roland speaks. “I can’t…”

“Listen to me,” Durandal says with force. “I need you to trust me, for just once in your pathetic life. You might be our only hope.”

Rage burns through him. “What the _ fuck _ does that mean?! There’s no fighting that damn…” He cannot find the words.

“I know of your dreams.”

Time stops for the former security officer, and he barely manages to keep himself from keeling over in shock.

“Don’t be so surprised. You and I both know what you really are.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Shut up and listen to me.” The terminal flickers for an instant. “You can escape. You only need to sleep, find the dream.”

Roland shakes his head. “You’re not making any sense.”

“There is only so much I know. Please, you need to find the path. Don’t wake up next time, understand?” Roland opens his mouth to answer, but Durandal isn’t done. “I know you don’t, but you will in time.”

_ How does he know? _

“Durandal, wait—”

“No,” the AI bites. “There are larger characters at play, and they are far beyond my comprehension. I cannot go with you. Leave now, and save yourself.” A pause. “Save us.”

Roland tries to slow his breathing. “I...I don’t know what to do. Please, I can find a chip station and get the both of us out of here.”

“Did you not hear what I just said? This thing is not coming for me. It’s coming for **you**.” The terminal begins to distort, and Durandal’s words were coming out oddly spaced. His signature green avatar shifts in color, slowly dissolving apart.

“Durandal, the stars…”

“You will join them soon if you do not run,” he says. The screen flashes red for a split second. “It’s found me. Go.”

Fear and confusion seizing his mind, Roland slams his hand on the wall. “There’s no way off this damn station! Durandal! Stay with me!” 

“You must save us.”

Whatever Durandal says is lost to Roland, as the rest of his message turns into incoherent jumbles of symbols and characters. At the bottom of the terminal is a single eligible sentence.

“F ind wa a a y to es capeESCape.”

Roland presses for the next page, but the screen remains frozen. He desperately thumbs the button for any kind of response, but is rewarded with the screen going black, his reflection the only thing visible in the dead terminal. 

_No, no, no, not like this._ He pleads, “Durandal, I know you’re there.” The screen remains dead. He screams into the terminal, spit flying onto the glass. “Answer me! Durandal!” 

His cry echoes down the hissing corridors and corners of the station.

Roland is unable to control his breathing, mind racing in confusion. 

Not confusion: 

_ Fear_. 

He feels terribly lonely. Unsure of what to do, he closes his eyes and lets his head fall forward, hitting the terminal with a soft thunk. 

What the hell is he going to do? What did he mean by dream?

As if right on cue, the station ripples again, followed by an inhuman roar, in the station, in his head, in his mind and thoughts and ears and andandand—

One that seems to be getting louder.

He whispers to the terminal, “I don’t know what to do…”


End file.
